The
Gunmen Of El Paso

by
Skeeter Skelton

Shooting
Times Magazine

December
1969

The
railroads, four of them, came in '81, and from their cars disgorged preachers
and prostitutes, jurors and confidence men, along with an abrasive assortment of
cowboys, gandy dancers, thugs, and just plain hell-raisers. El Paso was jerked
brusquely from its pleasant, sedentary role as way station for travelers between
Chihuahua and the badlands of New Mexico and resting point for those westbound
easterners who stopped to brace themselves before tackling the dangerous journey
across the Apache-spiked desert route to Arizona and California. Where it had
once stocked only fresh fruit, trail grub, horses, and ammunition, the border
village now offered babes, booze and blackjack, and the purveying of this new
merchandise quickly swelled the El Paso census to 10,000 souls in varying states
of grace.

Oldtimers
recalling boomtown El Paso say that the city marshal was in the pay of the
gambling element. As he and his only deputy drifted from one sporting house to
another, levying for free drinks and a cut of the action, a perfectly good
jailhouse gathered cobwebs while the gamblers, pimps, and pickpockets had a
heyday. Irritated at the sight of a public edifice decaying from disuse, the
city council canned its only two lawmen, and all hell broke loose.

To
protect their investment in the deposed officers, the sports of the tenderloin
comprised by Utah and El Paso Streets organized a shoot-up, reasoning that a
show of bad temper would demonstrate to the city dads that the unfrocked lawmen
were really needed.

The
plan backfired. After a night which must have rivaled the Viet Cong's 1968 Tet
offensive in volume of small arms fire, the councilmen shook the spent pistol
and rifle slugs out of their coattails and set up a wail for a sixgun
savior. The two-gun man who answered the call was one of the most efficient
gunfighters, and one of the strangest characters, produced by that troubled era.

Then,
as now, not many citizens were really expert with guns, especially handguns.
Knowing that I will be challenged, I lump most famous lawmen and outlaws of the
Old West into the "mediocre" category of sixgun expertise. The new
marshal selected by the El Paso city council was a definite exception to this
evaluation.

Dallas
Stoudenmire was a man who knew his tools and kept them sharp. A native of
Alabama, he was a Confederate veteran of the Civil War, having been wounded four
times while serving with the 57th Cavalry and the 33rd Alabama Regiment. Moving
to post-bellum Texas, he had sharpened his sixgun work in the pay of the Texas
Rangers' "B" Company.

Had
he lived 50 years later, Stoudenmire's square-jawed, handsome features, his
broad-shouldered frame, and quiet, imposing presence would have made him a rival
for John Wayne's seat as a movie hero. A humorless, serious sort, he likely
would have scorned such play acting and continued to live by his guns.

There
is contradiction about the guns he used. Historians agree that he carried two in
"leather-lined pockets". One authority has the marshal packing a pair
of "silver-plated .45 Colts". Famous lawman Jim Gillett, a
contemporary of Stoudenmire, presented two ivory-gripped 1851 Navy Colts,
obviously too long-barreled to have been carried in any but the most cavernous
of pockets, to Sul Ross University at Alpine, Texas. Gillett believed these revolvers
to have been Stoudenmire's and the integrity of Jim Gillett is above question.

Gordon
Frost, a prominent El Paso gun collector and author, has obtained a .44 Colt for
which he has convincing authentication as having belonged to Stoudenmire. One of
the rare 1871-72 transition models that bridged the gap between the 1860 .44
Army percussion gun and the 1873 Peacemaker .45, the Stoudenmire revolver has
been cut to 2 7/8"-inch barrel length, doing away with the front sight and
ejector red. Chambered for the .44 Centerfire cartridge, this seems a most
likely gun to be carried in the pants pocket of a knowing gunman of the 1880s.
Trimmer, with fewer projections to catch on clothing than 1873 Models, a pair of
these big-bore belly guns would provide all the firepower needed for any but the
most prolonged encounters. The Frost gun is said to have been removed from
Stoudenmire's pocket at the time of his death and is persuasive evidence that
not all westerners chose the Peacemaker Colt.

Whatever
sixguns he carried, Stoudenmire used them with deadly precision. Johnnie Hale, a
ranch manager employed by the Manning brothers, leaders of the gaming crowd, was
on trial for the murder of two Mexican youths. Not caring for the way the court
interpreter was translating the Spanish testimony of the witnesses, he
buttonholed the linguist on the street during a court recess. Words were
exchanged, and the accused murderer vented his spleen by jerking a Colt and
killing the interpreter with a bullet through the head. Stoudenmire, standing
nearby, ran toward the gunman, drew from his pocket, and snapped a shot at Hale
which missed and killed a curious onlooker. Steadying a bit, Stoudenmire fired
again, dropping Hale dead at the side of his own victim.

George
Campbell, a friend of Hale, drew his gun and began retreating from the scene,
muttering, "This is not my fight". Probably Campbell was just covering
his departure and didn't intend to fire. Pointing a weapon in even the general
direction of the two-gun lawdog was decidedly an unhealthy and foolhardy move.
Stoudenmire dropped him in his tracks, leaving four men dead in five seconds,
three of them victims of three rounds from the marshal's right-handed Colt.

Next,
the ex-deputy marshal Bill Johnson, a fuzzy-minded lover of good bourbon, became
convinced that it was his duty to rid the city of the dangerous Stoudenmire.
Johnson, armed with a double-barreled shotgun, posted himself behind a pile of
bricks in front of which Stoudenmire passed each night on his rounds. As the
tough badgetoter passed, Johnson swayed to his feet and touched off both
barrels, scoring the most costly two complete misses of his colorless career.
Stoudenmire's hands flashed to his pockets, and Johnson fell for the long count,
riddled with bullets.

As
the pressure increased, Stoudenmire himself began hitting the booze. His
Brother-in-law, Doc Cummings, was killed by the Manning brothers, or one of
their retinue. The marshal became surly and more dangerous under the burdens of
grief and sourmash whiskey, and an alarmed city administration maneuvered him
into resigning.

Drunk
and resentful, Dallas Stoudenmire went to the Manning saloon on the morning of
September 18, 1882. the brothers Manning - Jim, Frank, and "Doc" -
confronted him. Tempers flared, and Doc Manning, a diminutive man with the
fighting instincts of a terries, drew a double action .44 (probably a Smith
& Wesson) and fired, the bullet being stopped by a book and a packet of
letters in Stoudenmire's breast pocket. Manning's second shot pierced the
ex-marshal's left arm and chest near the shoulder. Stoudenmire recovered long
enough to shoot the little doctor through the right arm, knocking his gun from
his grasp. Doc Manning, knowing he was dead if Stoudenmire let off another shot,
embraced the wounded giant with both arms, pinning his gun hand to his side. As
the two duelists struggled in this embrace, Jim Manning fired a frightened shot
into a barber pole with his Colt .45 single action. His second shot was more
controlled, killing Stoudenmire with a slug in the left temple and proving that
it is not necessary to be an expert to best an expert when conditions are in
your favor.

Hollywood
scenario writers and pulp magazine hacks have been largely responsible for the
current concept of the western gunfighter. In attributing impossible gun skill
to such fumblers as Doc Holliday and Mafia-type murderers as Bill Bonney, they
have succeeded in glamorizing some pretty unsavory characters. At the same time,
they have completely ignored a great many gunfighters who were at least as
proficient as the Doc and the Kid and just as deserving of notice.

Dodge
City and Tombstone were mere flashes in the pan when examined against the
20-year reign of the sixshooter in El Paso. The Mexican border country was then,
and is today, the bailiwick of more genuine hardcases than any other locale west
of the Mississippi. Take Bass Outlaw. Know as the Little Wolf, this pint-sized
Ranger sergeant was both loved and feared by his friends. Sober, he comported
himself as befitted his gentle upbringing. On the sauce, as he frequently was, the
little lawman was contentious as only a confident gunman trained to violence can
be.

Fired
from the Rangers for drinking on duty, Outlaw stayed on in Alpine as a deputy
U.S. Marshal. A drinking spree led him on April 5, 1894, to Tille Howard's illy
reputed house in El Paso, where he began to give demonstrations of his own
special brand of Hell. Joe McKidrict, a Texas Ranger, approached him in the
Howard backyard, suggesting that the Little Wolf refrain from his exuberant
target practice while in the downtown area. Outlaw interrupted the Ranger's
remonstrance by shooting him at point-blank range, once over the left ear, a
second shot into the unfortunate McKidrict's back as he was falling.

Constable
John Selman, a lawman of questionable character, had spent the best part of the
day trying to dampen Outlaw's propensity toward violence. As McKidrict fell to
the ground, Selman saw that his placatory approach wasn't working. Sidling up
behind a board fence, Selman drew to fire on Outlaw, who let go a blackpowder
.45 round which sizzled by Selman's ear, the burning powder cutting into his
eyes. Blinded, Selman shot Outlaw through the chest, piercing his left lung and
right shoulder. The mortally wounded killer fired two more shots into Selman's
right leg, severely crippling him.

Four
hours later, Outlaw died in the bed of a lady of the night, calling out for
friends who didn't bother to respond.

John
Selman was a killer and cattle thief who, having struggled through brushes with
the law and personal enemies for most of his years, found himself in the
September of his life in the El Paso of the 1890s. As constable of the wide-open
border city, he found many chances for an extracurricular dollar and the
occasional need to reaffirm his position as a tough character by resorting to a
well-oiled sixgun.

Like
most of his contemporaries, Selman would have laughed hilariously at the idea of
today's Hollywood confrontation of two protagonists walking toward each other
down the middle of an open street, guns left holstered until the opposition
commenced festivities by essaying a draw. It just wasn't done that way, and on
the night of August 19, 1895, "Uncle John" Selman gave a classic
demonstration of the style that had kept him alive long past the age when most
good gunslingers had passed to their reward.

Trouble
had been brewing for quite a spell between the cane-carrying constable, still
crippled by Outlaw's bullets, and the most feared gunman ever to holster a Colt,
John Wesley Hardin.

Hardin,
after serving 15 years at Huntsville, had come to El Paso at the age of 40. He
had read law while in "the joint" and hung out his shingle in the
border Sodom. But his main occupation was gambling and cooperation with the many
bartenders in looking upon the likker while it was red. He became involved with
the blonde mistress of a fugitive horse thief, Martin M'Rose. M'Rose , a
roughcut sort, languished in Juarez, El Paso's twin city, and sent ample funds
to provide for the needs of his paramour, as well as to pay a retainer to Hardin
for preparing a legal defense that would permit his return to the States.

Hardin's
infatuation with M'Rose's woman caused him to represent his client's interest
with something less than vigor. The lovesick M'Rose was finally lured to the
Texas side of the river and, in a controversial arrest attempt, shot down by
officers Jeff Milton, George Scarborough, and Ranger Frank McMahon, a
brother-in-law of Scarborough. The killing smacked of ambush, but a jury later
exonerated the three when they produced a warrant for the arrest of M'Rose.

In
the interim, the M'Rose woman had been arrested for carrying a pistol by young
John Selman, son of the old constable and a popular city policeman. Hardin's
threatening reaction to this arrest and possibly a more sinister discord over
the fate of M'Rose himself led the elder Selman through the batwing doors of the
Acme Saloon that summer night. Hardin stood at the bar, playing poker dice with
a feather merchant named Brown.

"Four
sixes to beat, " he said, as Brown reached for his turn at the dice. Selman
took careful aim and shot Hardin through the head, the .45 bullet making an exit
through an eye. As Hardin's body slipped to the floor, Selman shot again and
again, missing completely, then hitting the dead man in the right arm and again
in the chest.

In
1896, John Selman, Jr., was arrested in Juarez on a charge of abducting a young
girl, with whom he had been found sharing the comforts of a hotel room. His
father, Old John, solicited the aid of George Scarborough, one of the killers of
M'Rose and a deputy U.S. Marshal, in freeing the lovesick boy. It was not
forthcoming. What happened next is confused.

At
4:00 a.m. on April 5, 1896, Constable Selman, who in the vernacular of the day
was "taken drunk," ran into Scarborough in front of the Wigwam Saloon.
They retired to a nearby alley for a conference. Four shots were heard, and
witnesses later testified that they had found Scarborough standing over Selman,
who had been shot at close range through the back of the neck, the right hip,
the side, and the left knee. His gun was not present at the scene. He died on
April 6, 1896.

When
a young thug named Cole Belmont, alias Kid Clark, testified at Scarborough's
murder trial that he had stolen Selman's gun, loaded and cocked, from the murder
scene, Scarborough was set free.

Precisely
four years later, on April, 1900, Scarborough, by then a detective for a cattle
raiser's association, found himself in pursuit of a band of train robbers in
eastern Arizona. They were believed to have been the fleeing survivors of Butch
Cassidy's Hole-in-the Wall gang. A .30-.40 bullet ripped through his leg and
killed his horse. Taken to Deming, New Mexico, he died after the amputation of
his leg, writing a finish to the strange, interlocking chain of killings.

The
devotee of firearms may draw some valid conclusions from El Paso's
bullet-spattered history. While the gunmen of that place were as good as the
best of the time - all of them had survived many battles before arriving in the
tough border town - nothing in their performances, with the possible exception
of Dallas Stoudenmire, indicated that they were outstanding sixgun men. Their
close-range encounters, often from ambush, suggested murder and assassination
rather than an open contest of skill between men at arms. Examination of their
widely diverse methods of carrying their pistols - Hardin's shoulder holsters
sewed to his vest, Stoudenmire's pocket draw, the high-ride,
pistol-in-the-front-of-the-belly style of Selman and Outlaw - all point to the
fact that a fast draw was of small importance to these men. When disputes found
them, their sixguns would already be clear of leather and, hopefully, pointed at
an unwarlike portion of their opponent's anatomy.

Today's
handgunners could skunk any of the oldtimers. Slick, accurate, double-action
guns, scientifically designed belts and holsters, a plentitude of practice and
ammunition - all these factors make the handgun man of the present easily the
master of the best of the 19th-century gunfighters. But turn the Selmans,
Hardins, Stoudenmires, and Outlaws loose in the same wild border town against
any of today's civilized sixgun experts, and I submit that there would soon be
no experts. the reason is one that many of today's antigun fanatics fail to
grasp. A shooter and a killer are two different things.